Wildly Unjust
by Hutchie
Summary: A Wild Justice tag, with some alterations


_A Wild Justice tag, with some alterations_

Beta'd by anna060957

4861 words

Rating: PG

**Wildly Unjust**

by Allie

Bodie released his death grip on King Billy.

Cowley lowered his gun.

Bodie's stance relaxed just slightly.

And Doyle began to breathe again. He moved forward. Somehow his feet had been stuck to the ground when Cowley pulled his gun like that. As if, if he breathed, Cowley would squeeze the hair trigger on his gun, and Bodie would be—

Doyle moved forward, heart pounding hard, side aching where Bodie had hit him with the stick and knuckles from where he'd bashed a few heads trying (belatedly, admittedly) to help his partner out.

He wrenched King Billy away and slapped cuffs on him, casting a sidelong, incredulous glance back at his partner. Bodie's face looked oddly emotionless. He crouched on the woodland floor like a marionette that had stopped dancing because someone stopped twitching its strings. Gone was the mix of anger and too-energetic humour that had animated Bodie these last few … days? Weeks? How long had it been? Doyle wondered. And why hadn't he noticed something was really wrong?

Backup was arriving now, police and CI5. Cowley must have radioed for them on the way in. Doyle glanced back at his fallen bike. Covered with mud, his beloved bike looked like a heap of rubbish amongst the mud, fallen limbs and leaves. He looked at Bodie. Not much difference, really. He shouldn't be crumpled in the mud and leaves, either.

The police and other agents moved in, applying handcuffs, taking the biker gang away.

"Bodie." Doyle moved towards his partner feeling as if he was pulled on strings himself. "Bodie." He heard the pain in his voice. Sounded winded, he did, except it was the cramp in his side and the pain in his chest at how far it had all gone wrong.

"What were you thinking, eh?" He kicked at some leaves, sending them fluttering towards his partner and stared down at him, bitter lines pinching his mouth. He swallowed hard to keep back the emotion that was trying to swim behind his eyes.

Bodie—gone off the deep end.

Cowley—threatening to kill him.

Doyle not being able to fix any of it, not even realising what was wrong until it was too late.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Bodie's head was bowed as if he didn't even hear. He'd grown so very still.

Now here was Kate Ross, a triumphant, martial look in her eyes. She was wearing a grey trouser suit and her curly hair was looking a little wild. She held a syringe in her hand.

"What's that for?" asked Doyle, feeling vaguely as if his partner needed protected. She looked too sure of herself, and Doyle wasn't sure of anything at the moment, especially where Bodie was concerned.

"This is for his own good."

Doyle took a jerking step forward with the idea of stopping her, but Cowley's voice rang out like the crack of a whip. "Doyle! Over here!"

Time for a right bollocking. He dragged his feet over to face the boss—and hesitated, glanced back at Bodie's bowed head.

"That was a debacle, Doyle!" snapped Cowley, glaring at him. He'd put his gun away, but his suit jacket was pushed back a bit and Doyle could see the handle of it. The gun that had almost shot his partner.

Doyle had seen gunshots to the head from that close. They weren't pretty. _Bodie, spread all over the wooded ground, dry leaves, and mud. Destruction applied to that handsome, perfectly sculpted, infuriatingly enigmatic head..._

He couldn't even find the words to express his feelings about what Cowley had threatened to do. It was just as well. Cowley only tolerated so much dissension and disrespect.

"He's your partner. You were driving off and leaving him to get into fights on his own. You weren't aware of the situation at all, and you should have been!" barked Cowley.

"I didn't know." Doyle defended himself wearily and half-heartedly, more from habit than anything.

"Well, you should've done."

Doyle's gaze snapped up to his boss's and sparked sharp hurt and anger. "And you should've bloody well kept your gun holstered—sir!"

He turned on his heel and went back to his partner. Kate Ross was trying to coax him to his feet. None too steady feet they seemed at the moment.

"Come along, Bodie," she said as though speaking to a large, recalcitrant child.

"I'll take him," said Doyle in a gruff voice. He realised it was mostly a sense of guilt—that Cowley was right, he should've known—but he also didn't feel Ross would be any help to his partner in this condition. "What did you give him?"

"A tranquilizer. It should wear off in a few hours. He should be under psychiatric care."

"He won't need it now. He's finished." Doyle grabbed him up under the arms—big, warm, muscular Bodie—and hefted him. "Come on, mate," he grunted, and helped Bodie swing a loose, heavy arm round his shoulder. He walked with him down the hill, past his fallen bike.

Bodie was loose-limbed, utterly silent, and as difficult to walk down the hill as if he'd been made of rubber. Doyle glared off offers of assistance and ignored the eyes on him. He reached his Jeep and saw his girlfriend there. He'd forgotten her. She looked worried, skinny, intense.

"Is he all right?"

"Yeah." Doyle bit off the word to keep from shouting. It wasn't her fault. He couldn't believe she'd just stood here the whole time, though. Then again, as far as she knew he and Bodie weren't even properly friends, just co-workers. Far as anybody might know from these past few weeks.

"Can I help?" She moved to open the door and Doyle steered Bodie into the passenger seat.

"Thanks, love," he said rather breathlessly once the door was shut on blank-faced, staring Bodie. It frightened him, that look. He reached through the open window and gave Bodie a couple of firm pats on the arm. "You're all right." Then he turned to his girlfriend. "Can you get another ride home? I'm sorry."

She looked hesitant and worried, but nodded. "Yes. Of course." She sent him a searching look. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah. Course we will."

She cast him an odd look, one he couldn't interpret.

"Ask one of the policemen," he instructed her. "Tell them I asked you to."

He got in the Jeep and drove away without waiting for her response.

He drove for a while in utter silence, navigating the roads, mind reeling. He had to get away, had to get them both away from that horrible spot. It wasn't till they were on the main road, retracing the route Bodie had led him down earlier, that he glanced at his partner.

"Bodie, what were you thinking?" He glared over at his drugged partner and hit the steering wheel with his palm. "Bodie. Hey. I'm talking to you." He reached over and shoved his arm.

Bodie moved with the shove, looked down at his arm, at Doyle's retreating hand, and then at Doyle as though only just noticing him. Doyle let his foot off the accelerator to slow down. He couldn't risk running off the road because he couldn't take his eyes off Bodie.

Bodie looked even worse than he'd thought, utterly bleak and not really present. "Williams is dead," he said in a flat, slurred sort of voice.

"Yeah, well, you could've said, instead of going off on your own little crusade!" Doyle snapped and turned back to his driving. All the same he freed one hand a moment later and reached out and squeezed Bodie's arm, hard. It was the only way he could prove to both of them that they weren't alone.

#

After reaching Bodie's home, Doyle helped him out. Bodie seemed sleepy; he leaned heavily and without complaint on Doyle's shoulder, one arm sliding around him willingly and holding on.

Ray got him up the steps, frisked him for his key, opened the door, got him in and deposited on the couch. He reset the security and then stalked off to the kitchen to make coffee, hoping it would relieve his feelings and bring Bodie round.

Even though logically he supposed Ross had the right idea—Bodie needed to be calm and get his rest—Doyle didn't like seeing his partner this way. He wanted to be able to communicate with him and see if he was all right inside, not have to look at a drugged, dazed version of him.

"Get that down you." He shoved a mug into his partner's hands and gave him a worried glare, searching his face.

Bodie sipped, holding the mug awkwardly in his big, tough hands. Bodie was an odd mix of things, the toughest of the tough who could still sometimes look like an overgrown boy: sometimes sleek and predatory, sometimes innocent and over-exuberant.

"You could've told me, _Bodie_." He reached out and pushed the mug more fully into his partner's clumsy hands to keep him from dropping it.

"How? Had nothing to do with you," mumbled Bodie in his drugged voice.

Doyle sighed. If Bodie still thought like that...

Then again, he'd been willing to overlook Bodie's oddities lately and let him get over things on his own. That, obviously, hadn't worked. Backfired big time. Bodie apparently thought that was the way things were supposed to be.

_Cowley's gun, aimed at Bodie's head..._

Doyle swallowed hard to dispel the image and drank scalding coffee. He grimaced. Should've added milk, like he had to Bodie's. He set his mug down and sat on the edge of the couch, arms crossed. He really wanted to tell Bodie off, but it would be useless right now. Probably he wouldn't remember, and then Doyle would have to do it again later.

Bodie looked lost—almost vulnerable in this state. A far cry from his manic attitude from earlier, when he'd been buoyant and bouncy—and menacingly angry underneath. He'd had a smiling contempt for his partner's warnings to watch himself, stay out of trouble. He'd been ignoring Doyle all day. This was the first time he was really still enough to listen. But he also didn't look like much of anything would get through to him right now.

With a sigh, Doyle seated himself on the couch beside Bodie. "Why don't you shower and go to bed, mate?" He pried the coffee from his partner's hands, less than halfway empty. Bodie held it like it was important but he'd forgotten what it was for.

"I don't want to."

"Fine." Doyle rose. "Then sleep in your muddy, bloody clothes for all I care." He carried the mugs to the sink, dumped them. His hands were shaking. He looked down at them with clinical detachment, twisted them together to get the shakiness out, and returned to the next room.

Bodie had stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.

Doyle stared at him a moment, a tight, angry feeling in his face and throat. Then he switched off the light and left the flat.

He almost got the whole way to his car before turning reluctantly back.

#

When Doyle awoke, his side hurt. The light was coming into the room from an odd angle. He couldn't remember what he was pissed off about, only that he was—and underneath, quite hurt. He also felt sore all over.

The revving of bike engines followed him from some half-remembered dream. The race came back to him before its context or what happened after. Bodie had sent him into a race. Unprepared. To fight his battles for him without explanation or warning.

The hurt, angry feeling of that danger and Bodie's utter lack of concern (his grinning, maniacal cheering and dashing off to harass the bikers afterwards), made a sour feeling in Doyle's stomach and throat. He rolled over, and found the bed was unfamiliar. He grimaced and brought a hand to his side, to hold where it ached. A bruise.

Bodie. A stick, hitting him. A punch-up. Cowley and the gun... And Ross, a needle, then Doyle taking Bodie home. He sat up and looked around Bodie's bedroom.

_I must've left him on the couch, covered in mud._

The mood he'd been in last night, he could understand it, but now guilt hovered vaguely. Bodie hadn't been in his right mind—perhaps not for a while, but certainly not while drugged—and Doyle shouldn't have left him to his own devices.

An uneasy prickle of worry slid over his spine as he remembered Ross mentioning psychiatric care. She wasn't one to let things drop. What if they'd come during the night, hauled Bodie away, and he hadn't noticed?

He padded out to the other room, wearing socks and soft trousers stolen from Bodie's clothing drawers.

Bodie. Wasn't. There.

Heart in his throat, Doyle's steps took him bounding towards the kitchenette. "Bo—"

"—die." He stopped. His partner sat at the table drinking coffee and reading a morning paper. Doyle gaped at him. Bodie was clean, showered, changed. (How had he snuck into the bedroom and retrieved fresh clothes without waking Doyle?) Now he sat reading and having breakfast as if nothing in the world had happened yesterday.

Bodie raised his eyes and brought his half-eaten toast and marmalade to his mouth and took a crunching, authoritative bite. "'Lo Ray. Sleep well?" he asked in a tone that held no emotional context at all—neither amused, nor mocking, nor angry. Simply... nothing.

Doyle shut his gaping mouth. He nodded, and moved to the table and got himself some bread, desperate for things to be normal, to be patched up and fixed. He put two pieces down in the toaster. Somehow he didn't want to leave Bodie alone, but he'd been alone all morning and Doyle's kidneys would burst soon if he didn't make a hasty retreat. He did.

When he emerged, Bodie was still seated, staring out the window now instead of reading. Doyle ate his toast dry, forgetting to add anything to it, staring at Bodie, not remembering to pour himself some coffee until he almost choked on the dry mouthful of crumbs.

He coughed a little, swallowed the dark brew and spoke. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Didn't mean to hit you. Sorry."

"Yeah, I know." Doyle didn't think that was anything for Bodie to apologise about. Striking out in the midst of a fight and catching friend instead of foe wasn't an issue. Acting as though Doyle was the enemy the rest of the time—now that was different. Still he said nothing more, afraid to unbalance whatever precarious place Bodie had reached overnight.

"Murph's on obbo," said Bodie, staring out the window.

It was so unexpected and unrelated to his own thoughts that Doyle's head jerked up. "What?"

Bodie nodded towards the window. "Watching us. Suppose they're waiting for me to go off me nut again."

"Did you?" asked Doyle. "Go off your nut?"

He was sorry he'd asked. Bodie and he stared at one another.

"Stands to reason," said Bodie, his voice casual but hiding a tightness beneath its flat tones. "Wouldn't have hit you otherwise."

"You seem to think that's the worst thing you did, mate." Doyle got up, taking his coffee and leaving the table, no longer hungry in the least.

"Isn't it?" said Bodie. "Can't we just get back to normal? Do you have to start with a guilt trip? I didn't kill Billy. What more do you want?" He drank more coffee.

Doyle relieved his feelings by slamming the door on his way out. He couldn't talk to Bodie right now. Couldn't get the words out in any way that made sense, and if he just punched him as he wanted to he might wreck something permanently between them. Or more permanently.

He stopped on the front step, in his bare feet, shirtless, wearing Bodie's soft pyjama trousers. Bloody hell.

He turned around and went back into the house, fetched his keys, flung on his sweaty t-shirt and boots and took his muddy trousers with him. Bodie ignored him and stayed seated at the table, still eating.

Doyle stopped in the doorway. "I hope you choke on it," he said with more venom that he'd known he possessed, and slammed the door harder on his second time out.

He walked over to see Murph, leaned in the window. Murphy straightened and set aside his thermos.

"What's the score, Murph?" Doyle thumped a fist down on the open edge of the window. The glass wasn't completely rolled down. Its sharp edge hit his clenched hand muscles. "Keeping an eye on Bodie?"

"Yeah. The Cow says he's suspended pending psychiatric evaluation."

"With the lovely Ross, I don't doubt." Doyle's jaw clenched.

Murphy shrugged and tried to look innocuous. Did he think Doyle meant to punch him or something?

#

"One thing after another," muttered Doyle. He slammed his locker, then kicked it for good measure. He only had his worst pair of jeans here, the patched ones that were extremely faded. The only shirt he'd been able to find was a scratchy flannel one from the bottom of his locker. It smelled musty and of mildew, and it itched when he put it on.

"The Cow wants you," said Anson on his way past.

Doyle turned to bite his head off, then bit his own lip instead. "Thanks." Part of him wanted to hide, but it would be better faced at once—get it over with. Cowley told him to enter on the first knock. "You wanted me, sir?" He kept his voice cool, his face impartial and blank.

Cowley glared up at Doyle from behind his desk. Sometimes he looked like a spider crouching there, or a puppeteer pulling everyone's strings. "Yes, Doyle. You took Bodie away against Dr Ross's orders. Have you an explanation for that?"

"He needed to go home." Doyle reflected that Cowley could've stopped him if he wanted to, if he'd really thought it was wrong. "Sir," he added grudgingly.

Cowley faced him. The two of them were squaring off, he realised. This wasn't about taking Bodie home to sleep it off. This was about... He thought of the gun, aimed at Bodie's head again.

"Dismissed," said Cowley with deceptive calm.

"Sir." Doyle pivoted...and then pivoted right back. Bitter anger well in him and he glared at Cowley. "I suppose you'll do the same thing to me, if I ever disobey you? Gun at my head, threaten to blow my brains out—_sir_?"

Cowley's mouth tightened. "Doyle, you know very well it would not be necessary for you. You would never reach that point."

"It wasn't necessary for Bodie either," said Doyle with extreme bitterness. "You could've put him in a head lock and got him off Billy that way. You and your karate. Could beat Bodie on a good day, much less yesterday!"

"He had to obey me," said Cowley. "Or he's a useless tool."

"Yeah—obey you with a gun to the head. That's a great method."

As he strode from the office, he realised he wanted Cowley to call after him, offer some explanation, some way for it all to make sense. He wanted to be able to believe in Cowley and trust him like he used to. But Cowley said nothing.

Doyle walked quickly down the hall, hating the silence more than he ever had Cowley's yelling.

Tools. That's all they were to Cowley—tools. Sometimes he'd been tempted to think differently. That maybe they were almost an odd sort of family, he and Bodie the kids larking about, Cowley the stern but fair father or uncle figure. He and Bodie both needed that. Neither had had enough of that in their lives, someone to really look up to and obey and matter to...

Except they didn't.

Doyle had been fooling himself. All the little gestures through the years—words of grudging praise from Cowley, doled out carefully so they wouldn't get swelled heads, the drinks and wry teasing, even the way Cowley had reached out to do up Doyle's tie for him the other day. He'd let himself be fooled by these very human, but ultimately meaningless, gestures.

Of course they were just tools to Cowley. He'd known that all along—and yet he hadn't. He'd always wanted to believe in some part of himself, the way Bodie did, that Cowley cared about them. That they were his favourites. That he'd protect them if ever he could.

Doyle knew now how foolish he'd been to believe that.

#

Bodie was suspended, had been ordered to talk with Dr Ross. Doyle saw him in the corridors sometimes, but he was still too angry to be able to talk to him clearly. So he avoided Bodie, keeping his face blank and his eyes cold. Bodie glanced at him, but kept his own face pretty impassive as well. He was good at that.

Doyle's girlfriend came over asking worriedly about Bodie. He told her his friend was fine. Despite a few more searching looks, she was forced to leave it at that. He felt closed off and hard and angry regarding Bodie. He did not want to talk about him.

King Billy had been arrested and charged with Williams' murder, as had a number of his gang. So far the witness hadn't backed out. While he was chasing down leads or working with the computer or filling in paperwork, Doyle found thoughts of his partner and what he'd done slipping between the cracks of his concentration.

Williams must have been a good friend for Bodie to go off his tracks like that. Just went nuts when he died. Bodie must miss him an awful lot.

The trouble was, Bodie never talked about his old mob, his old life, or his old friends. You'd never know he missed someone. He never even told Doyle his friend had died. He should've. Maybe Doyle wouldn't have ignored the signs that Bodie wasn't doing well. He'd wanted it to get better on its own. But it hadn't.

But every time he started blaming himself, he remembered what Bodie had done and found himself getting angry all over again. His partner had kept him completely in the dark, put Doyle in danger for his own stupid revenge and endangered everything they'd worked for together in CI5. All to get back at King Billy, over the death of a friend he wouldn't even talk about!

It was stupid, all round stupid even by Bodie's standards of keeping things locked inside...at least, the important things. He was always good for a joke and a laugh, was Bodie. But try to scrape back the veneer and get down to the ticking heart and he'd just throw up more barriers—humour, counterattack or bland amusement, but barriers all the same.

Doyle had given up trying. He'd simply give Bodie his space when he got upset or moody. Goodness knows he liked his own space sometimes, too. Bodie had always seemed to snap out of it eventually, often in a surprisingly short amount of time, coming round in a day or two with his daft grin wanting to share drinks or tell stupid jokes.

Doyle had thought they were O.K.

_Bloody hell, Bodie! If we weren't okay, you should've let me know!_

On the fifth day Bodie cornered him in the corridor, crowding close and sort of trying to corral him. "Still not talking to me, mate?" He tried to meet Doyle's gaze. Doyle shifted his eyes away. "Not going to forgive me?" A hand squeezed warm and strong on Doyle's arm.

Doyle was shocked and angry to feel hot tears trying to form behind his eyes. He looked away. "Nothing to forgive, is there? It had nothing to do with me." His voice came out in a bleak croak.

Bodie seized on it. "It didn't mate, it really didn't. Just something I had to do—_thought_ I had to do.

"Shows what you know, mate." Doyle wrenched free from him and gave him a glare, finally meeting his gaze. "If Cowley owns us body and soul and can sell us to science, then we own each other at least a bit as well. I need to know when something important is going on with you. It IS my business."

He glared at his partner, waiting to see if it would sink in, then wrenched away and started down the hall.

"Ray," said Bodie. Quick footsteps caught up with Doyle as Bodie caught his shoulder. "Stop."

Doyle yanked his shoulder free and turned a glare on his partner, a glare made fiercer by the burning behind his eyes. "I'm not supposed to be so meaningless to you that you don't even need my help when you're in trouble. You're so independent, what do you even need a partner for?"

But Bodie wasn't independent. He was almost clingy at times, wanting to spend holidays together, have drinks, go on double dates. Sticking up for Ray Doyle, acting indignant if he was in danger.

But never trusting Doyle to help him. Never even seeming to believe that Doyle would want to, that he might side with Bodie instead of Cowley or the rest of the world in general. Never giving Doyle a chance to prove he would make the right choice.

"You try to help me, when I need it. Why can't we be equal that way?" Doyle demanded.

Bodie stared at Doyle as if that had never occurred to him.

Doyle met his gaze for a long moment, and then felt himself giving up. He looked at the floor. "Never mind, then." Forcing his chin up, he turned away and started down the hall at as fast a pace as he could manage with his throat so abominably tight and painful and his gaze blurred.

"Doyle," said Bodie. He caught Doyle up and plucked his sleeve. "Didn't think of it like that, mate. Won't let it happen again. I was focused on what I owed an old mate. Didn't want to get you in trouble too. I will next time. Then you'll be sorry." He said the teasing words with a fierceness that belied their casualness. His grip on Doyle's arm was vice-tight. "Mate." He gave that arm a shake. "Come on, Doyle."

"All right," said Doyle, relenting suddenly and with great relief. He turned on Bodie and fixed him with a steely glare. "Promise."

"Hand on heart." Bodie slapped his palm against his chest, a quick smile flitting across his face. His eyes looked very relieved. "I promise, Ray."

"Good." Doyle aimed a fist at his ribs. "And next time you have to hit somebody with a stick, pick Cowley."

For a moment he couldn't read Bodie's gaze at all. Then Bodie grinned sheepishly.

"Think he'd have done it?" He held a finger up to his head as if it were a gun.

Doyle shuddered. "Don't." He pulled Bodie's hand down. He didn't know if he'd ever be ready to tell Bodie just how many years that little scene had taken off his life or how it still troubled his dreams.

"Ah, he wouldn't have." Bodie smirked. "Besides, it got her to testify. I got off lucky."

"You didn't see his face. He'd have done it," said Doyle grimly.

Bodie must have seen more in Doyle's eyes than he liked to reveal, because his next words were quiet, almost soft. "You can't blame the old man, Ray. He did what he thought was best. It worked out."

"I don't care. He's not allowed to do that." _I'll never forgive him._

"Can't hate Cowley, sunshine." Bodie crowded close to Doyle. Doyle gave him a perturbed look, trying to figure out what he was doing, and then realised: Bodie was folding himself around Doyle in a sort of hug. It was muscular, tight and brief; Bodie pulled back and slapped his back. He gave Doyle a look that was embarrassed, cheeky and a bit proud of himself.

Doyle felt something that had been hammering inside his chest for days now, hurt and angry, beginning to still. He felt quieter inside, found the sensation surprising and a great relief.

"It'll never happen again, Ray," promised Bodie. He brought a hand up to Doyle's curls and ruffled them, smiling his apology and warmth. He was back to being himself. This was Bodie at his best: he might not share everything he thought and believed and had lived, but when he was with you he was authentic, honest, caring. In his own way, of course.

Doyle let out his breath. "Okay." He let it go just like that: forgave Bodie.

And the rest of it, too: Bodie believed in Cowley still, Bodie promised that situation would never happen again. So it wouldn't.

Bodie's smile was sheepish, apologetic and hopeful. "Doyle. I need to visit Williams' grave, tell him we got Billy. Will you...?"

Right now Doyle knew exactly what to say. "Yeah, mate. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

They walked down the hall together, in synch finally.


End file.
